Alternative Dispute Resolution
by Esther-Channah
Summary: An alternate ending to Volume 4 #15. Matt's world is crumbling around him. Jubula has thrown him a lifeline, but the price for taking hold may prove too high!
1. Chapter 1

Spoilers: Daredevil Volume 4, #4, #15

Timeline: Daredevil Volume 4, #15

A/N: I've lifted some of the original dialogue (written by Mark Waid) for insertion.

 **Alternative Dispute Resolution**

It's been decades since I've seen a sunset, but I remember enough of them to picture the view outside the boat. The daylight fades. There's a brief moment when it reminds you of a sunrise, new hopes, new possibilities. And then the shadows close in. It's an apt metaphor for what lies ahead, I suppose.

It's the only way. That's what I tell Kirsten and Foggy. For weeks, months, the Shroud has been using Leland Owlsley to spy on me and record my activities. This afternoon, he dropped the bomb. The world now knows that we faked Foggy's death; that he's been here, living in hiding all this time, but that might be the least of my problems.

I always record my meetings with clients. I miss too much otherwise. It's hard to focus on what somebody's saying to me when I'm also cross-checking their heart rates to tell whether they're lying; analyzing the smells that cling to them, getting distracted by noises from outside the window and wondering whether I need to excuse myself to deal with something more pressing (Kirsten's read me the riot act on that one more than once). With so much to distract me, having a voice recording for each session is essential. And, with smart phone apps, it's never been easier.

Kirsten tells me there's no way I could have predicted this, but I've rubbed shoulders with some of the greatest scientific minds alive today. A list that includes the likes of Reed Richards, Bruce Banner, Hank Pym, and Tony Stark. I should have touched base with them months ago, when Owlsley—literally—got himself tangled up in some kind of new surveillance technology. I should have been more curious about its capabilities then. If I had been, I might have taken better precautions, taken better notes, invested in an old-fashioned reel-to-reel tape recorder, hell, made sure to have turned off the damned _screen_ on my smart phone.

How long were they watching me? How many private conversations did they monitor? Things I was told in confidence under attorney-client privilege, things that should never have been mentioned outside the office of Murdock and McDuffie (it doesn't matter what Kirsten puts on the sign; that's the directory listing)... less than two hours ago, the Shroud broadcast them on every electronic screen in San Francisco—if not farther afield. My clients' secrets have been publicly aired for the entire world to see. I've been there. I know just how bad that can be. How bad it's going to be.

My mind is running through worst-case scenarios, all of which feel highly likely at the moment: disbarment, prison, civil suits, bankruptcy, ruin... I could deal with all of that. As much as I'm dreading it, I actually think I could. But... there's Calvin Russell, witness to a murder, who pleaded with me not to make him disclose on the stand that he'd been with his mistress at the time and seen the crime unfold outside his motel window. Hank Kowalski, ready to turn state's evidence if I could just keep his name out of it. The client with the drug problem her employer now knows about; the woman whose husband promised to kill her if he found out she'd told anyone that he was abusing her... When the broadcasts started, when I heard those voices, one after the other, from all directions, relentless, continuous, all I could think was, 'Make this stop. Make it all go away.'

And then, Jubula gave me the name of someone who can do that. Even as I recoiled at the suggestion, I knew. If there's anybody who has that kind of power, he does. I don't care what the cost is. I don't care what he does to me. I need to protect my friends. I need to protect my clients. This is the only way.

I swing by the office to tell Kirsten to meet us on her dad's boat. She says he's already stopped by. I can tell that she's finally starting to understand exactly how dangerous it can be to know me and I'm grateful that she's still talking to me after all of this. Then I head to the safe house to get Foggy. We manage to slip out through a second-floor window. We head for the harbor. Foggy tells me I'm lucky I can't see how conspicuous the new costume looks.

I think that's the first time I've smiled since the broadcast's aired. I think it might be the last time I smile for a long time.

* * *

I tell them everything. How first the Shroud and, later, Jubula played me. How Charlie now believes that I organized her daughter's kidnapping in order to play the hero and rescue her. I feel so drained right now I can't even work up the energy to bristle at the accusation. She's based it on the fact that I showed up at her window with Jubula—and Jubula was wearing a suit identical to those of the goons who actually did the kidnapping. That was months ago. I'm not sure I would have recognized Jubula's costume as one I'd seen before, even if I could see. Of course, it helped that Shroud had brought up a video of Jubula _hiring_ the kidnappers at the precise moment when I was trying to tell Charlie what was going on.

When I'm done, Kirsten hugs me. When I tell her what I'm going to do next, I feel her stiffen. She doesn't try to talk me out of it, though. That falls to Foggy.

"This isn't the way, Matty," he says. "This is nuts. Don't give him an audience. He's a monster."

This is true. Very true. But he also might be the only person who can help me now. There are others I could call on, but they're in New York and he's here. And this has to be contained now. Before someone firebombs Kirsten's apartment. Before my clients' have to deal with the fallout from those broadcasts. Before things _really_ hit the fan. It can't wait. _I_ can't wait. If I wait, I'll start imagining everything that's going on while I'm sitting here. I'll keep replaying those voices in my head, those lives my carelessness has just wrecked, over and over. I'll keep thinking about how badly I've let everyone down and, if I let them, those thoughts will paralyze me into inaction. I can't rest, I can't wait, I have to keep swimming so I don't sink. So... I do something I've been trying to avoid since I came clean in court all those months ago.

I walk over to the wall, next to where Foggy's standing. I put my hand on his shoulder. And I lie. "I don't have to let myself be beguiled, Foggy. If I don't like anything he says, I can simply turn and walk."

Foggy's breath hitches. When he speaks again, it's in a tone I haven't heard since... since the last time I made a deal with the man I'm about to go see. "Who are you trying to convince, Matt?" he demands. "Because it's sure as hell not working on me."

"It's the only way," I say.

"Yeah?" Foggy asks. "Has he got a time machine, now? Some kind of amnesia ray? How exactly do you think he can fix this?"

"I don't know," I admit. "That's why I'm not going to commit to anything until I hear what he has to say."

Kirsten's squeezing my arm as Foggy throws up his hands and starts pacing. "Until you... Matt, he's never going to tell you anything until he's got you totally backed into a corner. This is _Kingpin_ , for crying out loud!"

Just hearing someone else say his name makes it all seem that much more real. Not that I thought this was a dream. Wished, yes. Hoped, yes. Thought? No.

"He's already got me there," I point out. I will not give in to self-pity. I will not break down. I will not flake out. "I'm holed up on a boat. We can't even turn on a computer to find out what's going on out there. The police, my clients, and the California Bar Association are probably conducting a house-to-house search!" So much for not flaking out, I think, as I jerk my arm out of Kirsten's grasp and draw closer to him. "What else do you think he can do to me?" By now, I should know better than to ask that question.

Foggy takes a deep breath. "If I were him? Let's keep in mind that I'd probably want two things most of all: to neutralize you as a threat and... to make you squirm. So. First off? I—Kingpin—would promise to keep Kirsten and me— _me_ —safe. And naturally, the best way to do that would be to have us taken to a different safe-house; one _you_ don't know about. And now, I—Kingpin—have two _hostages_ to ensure that you'll stay in line. Second? Well, if I'm just going for run-of-the-mill knife-twisting... that tech Owlsley got into... it's out there, right? I mean, it's experimental, but the company developing it is on record. It shouldn't be too hard to get my hands on the specs. And how do I shove your latest genie back in the bottle? Well, I start broadcasting _other_ attorneys' private conversations. I do enough of those to take some of the heat off you; maybe frame Shroud and Owlsley. Now, everyone's out for their blood. You might still catch some fallout, but it's going to be more evenly distributed and, yes, being under my protection is going to count for something. But if I'm the Kingpin... I'm not going to stop there. No, the next thing I'm going to do is reach out to some of the lawyers I haven't exposed yet and ask them how much it's worth to them to keep their files confidential. I'll contact their clients—those with skills I can use in my organization—and make _them_ offers. 'Come work for me... or else'. Oh, and Matt? That initial conversation you and I have, where I tell you what I'm going to do? I'll have that recorded, too. Edited to make sure you're portrayed in the worst possible light. Because if the law should catch up with me and I end up going down... rest assured I'm taking you with me."

He came up with that on the spur of the moment. I'm not sure whether I find that more impressive or more terrifying. He's right, though. That's exactly the kind of thing Fisk would do. Which leaves me with one other option.

"Then," I say slowly, "I guess the only other way out of this is to find Julia Carpenter. I do that, the Shroud stops targeting me. That eases enough of the pressure that I can... try to address the rest of it."

I turn back to Kirsten. "Does your father want the advance back for the book?"

"No," she says, with a note of bitter humor. "He thinks it might even sell more copies now."

Of course. Scandal sells almost as well as sex, these days. "Okay," I take a deep breath. "I use the proceeds from the advance and any future sales to set up a compensatory fund for my—our—clients. Maybe enough of them will settle out of court; I don't know. I can try to talk to Charlie after she's calmed down enough not to shoot me on sight. And..."

Kirsten's breath catches. "Oh, my gosh," she says. "What if... What if Kingpin's already found Julia?"

I feel like I've just been sucker-punched. It's like waking up in an unfamiliar environment and not being entirely sure where I am, sifting through the sounds and smells, trying to figure out what shapes my radar sense is describing to me... and then everything comes into sharp focus. What is Fisk doing here in San Francisco? How does Jubula know he's here? And if...

"If he has Julia," I say slowly, "then..." Kingpin is a master manipulator. This is not news. There's no love lost between him and Owlsley either—when he lost control of the New York underworld, the Owl tried to take over from him. How far back does this go? How long has he been involved? I turn to Foggy and discover that I was wrong before. I'm smiling. A little. "Take that theory of yours and change one of the players. Suppose that Kingpin is using Julia to ensure that the Shroud stays in his employ? He has Shroud break Owl out of prison, uses him to keep tabs on me and," I nod toward him again, "maybe some other lawyers, as you mentioned before; I'd believe that of Fisk easily. Meanwhile, Jubula turns up looking for her father. Kingpin makes some deal with her; maybe something as simple as direct me to him when the right moment comes..."

"Then everything hits the fan," Kirsten says.

"And when you're desperate enough to be grasping at straws," Foggy's hand comes down on my shoulder and some of my tension drains away, "she gives you his name."

Now I'm wondering whether he was behind Charlie's daughter's abduction, too—or whether he saw an opportunity and took advantage.

"If I approach him..." I'm thinking out loud, now, "Owlsley as his slave, not to mention a hostage to ensure Jubula's loyalty. Jubula designing weapons and equipment for him. The Shroud working for him, believing his promise that he's looking for Julia..."

"You under his thumb," Kirsten interjects.

I nod. I'd been prepared for that, but Foggy's right. I wouldn't be keeping them safe; I'd be handing them over to Kingpin as leverage. Plus, if he already has Julia...

"Okay," I breathe. "Okay. If I don't show up to meet with him, he'll know something's up, so I think I have to." I hold up my hand to stave off both protests. "That doesn't mean I'm going to ask for his help." Colluding with a known criminal to—among other things—get myself cleared of any association with a gang of hitherto _un_ known criminals... Forget Shroud and Owl. If Kingpin has me on record agreeing to that proposal, I might finally learn to stop asking how things could possibly get any worse. Because they always can. But they don't necessarily have to.

An idea comes to me then. It's not a real plan, not yet. And planning isn't my strongest point in the first place. But I'm not alone. And at least one of the people with me has just demonstrated that, when he has to, he can think like the Kingpin. Maybe, just maybe, the three of us can manage to _out_ think him.

I take another breath. "I've got an idea. If it works, I believe it's going to dismantle whatever Kingpin's trying to accomplish here." As I start to explain, fleshing out the bare bones as I go, they start nodding. At various points, they argue with me, but they don't shoot down the main idea, so much as point out places where things might not go the way I want them to. In the end, when we've got the details hammered out... it's not perfect. I'm not going to get out of this unscathed. At the end of the day, I'll probably be lucky if I ever set foot in a courtroom again as something other than the defendant. I'll deal with that somehow.

First things first, though. "Give me an hour's head start before you call Charlie," I tell Kirsten.

"If the Shroud tries jamming her..."

I shake my head. "He won't," I say. I'm pretty sure I'm right, too. "Not if she leads with what we've decided."

"I just hope she takes the call," Kirsten says.

"She will." I hope.

It's time. I climb above deck and approach the rail. From the cabin doorway, Kirsten calls "Just... stay off the radar, Baby."

I don't turn around. I don't have to. Radar sense is 360 degrees; I can 'see' her stance just as well from behind. But when I tell her, "You too," there's a catch in my voice.

Today, I discovered how many mistakes I've made since moving to this city. As I swim toward the Kingpin's San Francisco office, I hope it's not my biggest one, yet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Kirsten is glad that Foggy isn't bugging her to check the time every five minutes. She _is_ checking the time every five minutes, but that's different. Matt is counting on her. She's not about to let him down. But she could cheerfully strangle anyone else keeping up a steady stream of "Is it time yet? How much longer?"

She checks her watch again and looks over to where Foggy is leaning back on the couch. He's almost diagonal, perched on the edge of the seat cushion, with his shoulders pressed back into the upholstery, his legs out, and his feet flat on the floor. Sitting like that _can't_ be good for his back, but Foggy's a grown man and he can make his own choices. Still, she has to ask, "Are you comfortable in that position?"

He smiles. "Actually, yeah. You should try it."

"I'll pass."

"Your loss."

Another few minutes pass in companionable silence. Then Foggy asks, "Is it just me, or is it really stuffy in here?"

She considers. It's only about 52 degrees outside, but the cabin is warmer, he's wearing a heavy sweater and the window blinds are drawn for safety's sake. "I can put on the AC if you need it," she says.

"In other words, it's just me."

"Yeah. But I can still put the AC on."

He shakes his head. "I can manage. How cold is the water?"

"Not exactly swimming conditions," Kirsten says lightly. She breaks off in realization. "Not that it stopped Matt. But then, he didn't have to go far."

Foggy shakes his head again. "You don't think he'll end up with pneumonia on top of everything else, do you?"

"Well the suit's waterproof."

"And hideous."

"You said it; I didn't."

They share weak laughter. Kirsten checks her watch. "Okay." She unplugs her cell phone from the charger. "It's time."

"Good luck."

He feels a sense of déjà vu, as he watches Kirsten key in the deputy mayor's number. "Charlie?" she says. "It's Kirsten McDuffie. I... I need a favor. After what happened today," she hesitates, "I... think Matt's snapped. Something like this happened back in New York, too; we thought it was a one-off, but now... I really think he needs psychiatric help. When he ran out of here, he was going on about how he knows that the Kingpin abducted a woman named Julia Carpenter, he's learned where she's being held, and if he can get to her then everything that happened today goes away."

Foggy has to hand it to Kirsten. She's playing her role to the hilt. Even if she is borrowing a lot of the words he used that time when he was drunk and scared for Matt for real.

Kirsten takes another breath. "But here's the thing. Kingpin—Wilson Fisk—Matt's told me he's dead. So either he's losing his grip or..." She gives Foggy a thumbs-up. "No, I don't have an address, I..." she lowers her voice and speaks more sadly. "Yeah, I get that the police are already looking for him. I just thought you might need to know... yeah. Right. I guess it doesn't help that much."

She hesitates. "Charlie? You know that for all his heightened senses, Matt's still blind, right? He couldn't have known what the woman he was with was wearing. Or what the creeps who took your daughter were." There's a longer pause. "I understand. It's just... something else to think about. Thanks. If I hear anything else, I'll let you know." She ends the call.

She takes a deep breath. Then she smiles at Foggy. "I hope Matt just heard the Shroud bellow. I wish I did."

Foggy laughs for a moment. Then his expression sobers. "You went off-book at the end. That bit about the costume."

"I know," Kirsten nods. "I thought maybe she'd calmed down enough by now to listen to reason. Plus, I didn't think that the Shroud would be paying much attention to what I was saying at that point."

"Did it work?"

Kirsten sighs. "Maybe..." She opens one of the galley cabinets and pulls down a few canned goods. "Damn. Waiting to hear how the rest of this plays out is going to take forever. I'd pop open a laptop, but..."

"Yeah," Foggy nods. "Welcome to _my_ world." He takes his own cell out of his pocket. "Here's hoping this is safe to use now." He punches in the number Matt gave him and sends a quick text. "Well," he ventures, "at least we won't be waiting alone..."

* * *

I'm glad the new suit is as well-armored and well-insulated as the old one was. I can't say I'd like the idea of shivering and shaking in the Kingpin's presence and going back home to change would be out of the question. I have to assume that the police are staking out my house. If they weren't before, they will be as soon as Kirsten makes her call. Assuming Shroud lets it through.

I make a quick stop on Minnesota Street on my way. The first time I moved out here, there was a six-week period where Tasha was working undercover as an administrator at USCF. If I was in the area when her shift was nearly over, I'd call her from the pay phone outside the Esprit a block away, to find out if she wanted some company. 'Company' being code for 'backup' while she did some more investigating. Really, I'd just call because I wanted to hear her voice.

Well, silly nostalgia, but when I settled here this time, I went by some of the old haunts, including that one. The pay phone was still there. Not the exact phone; this one takes cards. I haven't checked the balance on my current prepaid. I'm hoping there'll be enough for a quick long distance call. It's not that land lines are unhackable. They absolutely are. However, the fact that it's a public phone means that the Shroud _probably_ won't notice my call, until it's too late. I hope. Just like I hope that Jen Walters was exaggerating about how... eccentric the guy I'm calling is. The first thirty seconds of the call do not bode well. Then I tell him what I need and I'm relieved when he sobers up.

He'll be here a lot faster than I was hoping. It's an hour and twenty minutes in the air from LA to San Francisco, but he tells me he has a few favors he can call in. I try to hide my surprise. I only know this guy by reputation; we've never met. I'm an Avenger, he's an occasional X-Man... I think. We move in completely different circles most of the time. Truth be told, I was half-expecting him to politely tell me to ring Tony Stark. Not the worst idea, but every time I think of Tony, I get this surge of anger and I have no clue as to why. Besides, Tony is pretty conspicuous. After everything that's gone down today, I want this kept low-key. If Foggy's right, Kingpin's probably sending a team to collect Foggy and Kirsten as soon as he knows I've left the boat. (I have to assume he knows where we ended up. If the Shroud is working for him, it's a safe assumption. If he isn't, I can't imagine it would be hard for him to find out that Kirsten's dad owns a yacht and figure out that it's probably the best place to hole up, with Foggy's safe-house compromised.) And while I'd like to call out an army to protect them, this guy is the next best thing to it.

Once the arrangements are made, I hang up and make my way to Fisk's San Francisco headquarters. My suit's mostly dried off by now. So's my hair; buzz cuts have their advantages. There's no point in surprising him. He knows I'm coming. I walk in the front door. I don't have to feign resignation. As much as Kirsten, Foggy, and I have tried to take steps, I know that Kingpin might still have me right where he wants me. I'm staying focused on that, mostly because Foggy's commented that my acting skills leave a bit to be desired. Show confidence, show cockiness, show the slightest hint that I might have an ace up my sleeve, and he'll know something's up. So, it's with an air of despondency that I walk in the front door.

I spot the two goons waiting for me as soon as I'm inside. Massive, though not quite as big as their boss. They come up on either side of me and one of them orders me to spread my arms. I comply. The frisking is no more invasive than what I've put up with in the past, when visiting clients on Ryker's Island. It just _feels_ that way. I want to resist with every fiber of my being, especially when they confiscate my cane—though I can't blame Fisk for being cautious. Same thing with my phone: I'm not going to get the opportunity to make any recordings. It's not until they each seize one of my arms and frog-march me into the elevator that I realize that this whole thing really is designed to intimidate me, to drive home exactly how desperate my position is, to see whether I've got any vestige of pride left at this point. To get to where I'm going, I need to convince them I don't. Individually, each security measure is a reasonable precaution. Collectively, each petty humiliation is calculated to remind me how badly I need his help. I wish I could know for sure that he's wrong about that.

When the doors open, the goons haul me down the corridor. My feet barely touch the ground. My arms will be sporting massive bruises by tomorrow, if they aren't already. At the end of the corridor, they release me and push open a set of double doors. He's inside, standing next to his desk, his heartbeat calm and steady. To his mind, at this moment, I pose no threat whatsoever.

"Mr. Murdock," he almost purrs, "I've missed the pleasure of your company. Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable."

* * *

"What was that?" Foggy whispers, coming fully alert in a moment.

The call is repeated. "Ahoy, there! Permission to come aboard?" The thing is, the call seems to be coming from above deck, not alongside. Kirsten and Foggy exchange looks. Then, Kirsten opens a drawer in the galley kitchen and pulls out a knife.

"There's a storage compartment under your seat," she tells Foggy. "Dad keeps a baseball bat in there. It's a personalized Louisville Slugger; if you hit anyone, try not to smudge the autograph."

Foggy swallows hard, but he lifts the seat cushion and retrieves the bat. "You know, if it's Kingpin's people, this won't stop them for long," he says.

"Sh!" Kirsten opens the cabin door a crack. She can see two people above deck; a man who appears to be about her own age, and a girl in her late teens. She pulls it open wider.

"Not so loud," the girl is saying. "My teleportation's good, but I can't guarantee this is the right boat. If they take us for burglars and call the cops—"

"I know. Last thing we want. Eh...?"

The girl has spotted them and she's gripping the man's arm and is gesturing toward the cabin.

The man grins at them. "I don't suppose one of you sent a text to 555-9636 in the last half hour?"

Foggy clears his throat. "That would have been me."

"Mr. Nelson, I take it? And... Ms McDuffie? It is 'Ms,' right? Not Miss or Mrs.?"

They both nod.

The man looks at his companion. "It's the right place; I'll take it from here. Thanks, Magik."

"Any time. Now, I've really got to run." So saying, she waves her hand. The air shimmers and a round doorway hangs in midair. She steps through it and it closes behind her."

The man smiles at Kirsten and Foggy's somewhat bewildered-somewhat nervous expressions. "She's Doctor Strange's student. He's got this thing about punctuality. Don't judge her too harshly. Hi, I'm Jamie Madrox. Daredevil said you could use me."

Foggy looks him up and down. "Um... no offense, but..." He breaks off. "Never mind."

Jamie laughs. "What, I don't look tough enough? Don't worry. I'm pretty sure I can handle any non-powered threat well enough."

Kirsten takes a deep breath. "Let's hope you're right. But just in case you aren't," she holds up her knife with one hand and gestures to the bat in Foggy's hand, "we'll hold onto these."

"Suits me fine. So. While we're waiting, how about bringing me up to speed on everything else that's been going on? I understand from one of my dupes that there's a whole legal kerfuffle?"

Foggy snorts. "That's one way to put it." He frowns a bit, wondering what Jamie means by 'dupes'.

"Well," the newcomer says, "entertainment law is more my bailiwick, but I might know a thing or two that can help."

"Maybe later," Kirsten says. "Right now, we've got other things to—Ah!" A bright line shines directly into her face and she closes her eyes and turns away. The light stays on her. More search lights sweep the deck, fore and aft, locking onto Jamie and Foggy.

Foggy moves quickly to the rail, the spotlight following him all the way. "We're surrounded on three sides," he says quietly. "There's a boat portside and starboard side that weren't there when we got here. There's that one," he waves fore, "blocking us in and the harbor at our back. I'm willing to bet that these aren't fishing boats that took a wrong turn."

"Roger that," Jamie says. "Let's get started then." He stomps his foot and suddenly, there are two of him. He repeats the procedure with identical results. "I guess I should have warned you," he admits, punctuating each word with another stomp, "but introducing myself as 'Jamie Madrox, The Multiple Man' just feels so pretentious. How many of me do you need in order to feel safe?" He leans closer with a paternal smile.

Kirsten blinks at the thirty identical Madroxes. Then she smiles. "I think this is enough for a start. However," she adds, "make one more condescending crack and I'll stamp on your foot myself."

"Company," one of the duplicates calls. Grappling hooks attach to the rail on the opposite side of the boat and a boarding party starts swinging toward them, hand over hand.

"Got any boiling tar?" another one asks.

Without waiting for an answer, the Madroxes spread out around the railing. The men climbing the ropes freeze, confusion and concern warring on their faces, as they realize that they are facing far more people than they'd bargained for.

When one, in panic, fires a gun, a Madrox takes hold of Kirsten and Foggy and steers them below deck. "If it comes to it," he explains, "my dupes are expendable. You two aren't. Hold onto those weapons, sure. Use 'em if any of those creeps make it down here. But Matt asked me to make sure you two stay safe. I don't want to let him down."

This time, he's not being patronizing. Kirsten and Foggy both nod.

"Okay. So, as I was starting to ask when we were so rudely interrupted, what else is going on?"

* * *

Sitting here now, practically smelling the confidence oozing out of his pores, I can't help remembering the last time he tore my life apart. Again, he didn't take me on face to face; he went behind the scenes and took everything away from me, piece by piece. My career, my reputation, my home... about all he left me were the clothes on my back and some smoldering rags that had once been my costume. I made a number of mistakes that time. Yes, including lurching into his office when I was anywhere but at my best and thinking I could beat him into giving me my life back. (No need to wonder why that's been on my mind for the last little while, I suppose.) But that wasn't my biggest mistake.

Kingpin separated me from everything that was important to me, but it was my choice to break away from the people. It would be nice to be able to say that I was nobly making that sacrifice so that Kingpin wouldn't hurt them to get to me. Sometimes, I even think I've convinced myself. But truthfully, it probably had more to do with pride—not wanting to admit how lost I felt, how badly I was hurting; and fear—back then, Foggy didn't know I was Daredevil and, somehow, even though my worst enemy knew the secret, I was still scared of how my best friend would react.

It's easy enough to say that I've grown since then, except that once again, here I am, trying to make Kingpin give me back my life, when he's probably the one who wrecked it in the first place. He has no reason to do so. And, as Foggy pointed out, if my main reason for approaching him now is to keep the people I care about safe... it's not going to work. Or, at least, it wouldn't if I were still trying to shoulder this load on my own. But I'm not. Foggy and Kirsten are in the loop. Thanks to them, I've made a few modifications to my original playbook. I just hope they'll be enough.

And now, Kingpin is sitting across from me. I might not be able to see the expression on his face, but I can feel him gloating. He's sure he's got me right where he wants me and I'm not positive he's wrong. But I'm not going to knuckle under without a fight.

"I must say I was somewhat surprised when you initiated contact, Murdock," he rumbles. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I think you know," I say steadily. Of course that's not enough.

"Perhaps. But I would still like to hear you say it."

Foggy was right about one thing, at least. He does want to watch me squirm. The last thing I want to do is give him the satisfaction, but then, since I've been told that my acting skills leave a lot to be desired, I'm hoping that my reluctance will work for me. I tell him what the Shroud has done. He doesn't seem surprised. When I'm finished talking, he laces his fingers together and flexes them. He rolls his chair fractionally closer, as though he'd be only too happy to crush me were the desk not between us. "You _have_ suffered a number of reverses," he says slowly. "Serious ones. But what has any of this to do with me?"

I take a deep breath. "Other people have been hurt by the disclosures," I say. "Good people. I can't protect all of them. I was hoping that there might be some way to spin what's happened so that the impact to them is mitigated."

"Ah. And for yourself?"

I shake my head. "I'm not fool enough to ask. Or think you'd be interested in helping me on that score."

"I see." There's a long pause. When he speaks again, his voice is almost benevolent. "Actually," he says, "there _might_ be a way for us to help each other. I am presently in California to deal with various legal matters. Zoning issues, various civil suits that have been slowly working their way through the system, an appeal or two. While you've long been a thorn in my side, I've been impressed in the past by your acumen in the courtroom. It would be sheer shortsightedness on my part not to take advantage of your skills in that area for reasons of personal animosity."

I let my jaw drop. I'm not really surprised at anything he's saying, but I want him to think I am. "I... can you fill me in on the details?"

"In time," he sounds amused. "In time." He cracks his knuckles. "I'm well aware of your scruples, Murdock. I don't expect you to compromise them. But my organization is vast and I'm sure that I can find various matters that would benefit from your attention, and should not offend your... sensibilities."

"And in exchange," I say, "you'll protect my clients. And my current partner comes through this unscathed?"

"Both your past and current partner will enjoy my protection for so long as you uphold your end of the bargain."

I will never underestimate Foggy's insights again for as long as I live. I take another breath. "And you'll release Julia Carpenter?"

For the first time, his heart beat spikes. "I beg your pardon?"

I smile. "I think you heard me."

"I grant you that I've been looking for her," Kingpin says, raising his hands, with his palms down. "A favor to another in my employ. But, regrettably, I have no idea where she is." He lowers his hands to his lap.

For an instant, I wonder whether I overplayed my hand. I don't think he's lying. But while his heart rate is stays steady, I can smell his perspiration and I hear him wiping his palms on the linen fabric of his trousers. He may have no idea where she is, but that doesn't mean he's not holding her.

"I'm not convinced," I say softly. "Perhaps the Shroud will be when he arrives."

The sweat smell grows stronger. I'm willing to bet that he's been briefed on Max's abilities. "If he is," Kingpin rasps, "your first duty in my employ will be to defend me against him."

I shake my head. "Sorry. Much as I appreciate your efforts to accommodate me, I'm afraid I'll have to turn your offer down."

He chuckles then. "Do you seriously believe that you have a choice?" His good humor vanishes, leaving nothing but steel and ice in his voice. "Listen to me, Murdock. While we've been been discussing your future, I have already begun upholding my commitment. At this moment, Mr. Nelson and Ms McDuffie are enjoying my hospitality. They will continue to do so for as long as you remain in my service. But if you should refuse or should you perform your assigned tasks with anything less than your maximum effort..."

I just hope that Madrox came through. If he didn't, I'm in real trouble. So, once again, I'm not feigning nervousness when I say, "I think you're bluffing."

He pushes something toward me. I reach for it and realize that it's my cell phone. "Why don't you call them?"

My own hand is sweating as I punch in Kirsten's number. She picks up on the second ring. "Hey."

"Hey, yourself," I smile. "How are you holding up?"

"We're doing okay. There was some excitement earlier, but it's been taken care of."

My smile grows wider as a wave of relief washes over me. "Kirsten, I'm going to put you on speaker, okay? There's someone else with me who needs to hear how you're doing."

I don't miss the low growl in Kingpin's throat as I press the button. "Could you repeat that last bit, please? For a bigger audience?"

This time, there's more than a hint of amusement in her voice. "Sure. Foggy and I are fine. That security detail you sent us did the trick. Will you be coming back soon?"

Before I can answer, the office window shatters as someone swings into the room. I recognize the silhouette before I track the heart beat. The Shroud has arrived.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

I guess I can stop wondering whether the Shroud was eavesdropping on our communications. He is royally ticked off. The office doors burst open and the two goons who escorted me here spill in with reinforcements. One of them grabs hold of me before he realizes I'm not the one threatening his boss. The next minute, they're standing frozen, their pulses speeding up.

"Boss? Boss?"

Voices are nervous. I'm pretty sure the guy gripping my arm right now is doing so to confirm that he's not alone in a void, and not because he's trying to menace me. Shroud's got to be using his power on them.

His voice grates like iron scraping concrete and the temperature seems to drop as he all but screams, "WHERE. IS. _JULIA_?!"

I have to hand it to Kingpin. His heart is hammering in his chest, but if I was going by voice alone, I'd never know he was scared. He shrugs expansively and replies, "I have no idea."

"No more lies!" Shroud snaps. "No more games! My patience is exhausted! Where is she?"

"Why don't you ask Murdock if I'm lying?" Kingpin replies. "He knows."

Here's irony for you: with all the lying I've done in the past, with the lies I told tonight to try to reassure my friends earlier, at this moment, I have one of my worst enemies counting on me to be truthful, when an expedient falsehood might solve one major problem on the spot. And I'm not sure why I justify his faith in my honesty, but I do. "He's not," I admit.

"So," Shroud snaps, stalking toward me, "you tricked me. You manipulated me, dangling a light into the darkness of my existence, only to jerk it away. Allow me to reciprocate."

On cue, radar field narrows from 360 degrees to about 36. Hearing starts to fade. I know I haven't moved from the chair, but I no longer feel the cushioned leather surround me. I might as well be floating. I can still smell the tobacco on Kingpin's fingers from his Cohíba cigars; he's sitting directly in front of me. But the other scents in the room are muffled and fading fast. My sensory awareness becomes limited to a small crack of... well, call it 'light', even if it's not completely accurate.

I fight down a wave of panic. I've said it before: that whole 'Man without Fear' nickname? It's not entirely accurate. It's easy enough to jump off a building 50 stories high when you can't see what a long way down it is. I hate to break it to people, but that's not being fearless; it's being blind. But when I know what's coming? More than a year ago, I was imprisoned in Latveria and subjected to sensory deprivation. I never want to go through that again. Just the thought of it has me breaking a sweat now. I have to stop Shroud somehow, but I have no idea where he is and I'm not entirely sure I remember the layout of the room. And then it hits me.

"Shroud!" I yell, hoping that I sound authoritative, not terrified, "Kingpin may not know where Julia is, but he knows who's hiding her!" I hope. If I've guessed wrong, at least I have the satisfaction of knowing that Kirsten and Foggy are still safe. Then the small glimmer of sensory awareness I've got left widens and I hear Kingpin's heart hammer, smell his sweat over the Cohíbas, and I know I've got a chance.

"Is that true?" Shroud demands.

"Of course not," Fisk blusters. "Look at him; he's desperate! Clutching at straws!"

Okay, that much is also true. The thing is, sometimes—very rarely—those straws are stronger than they seem. Like now. "Shroud," I take a breath, "Max. I admit I misled you to get you in here, but if you think back, I believe you'll find that I've never blatantly lied to you. I'm not lying now either. He knows."

For a moment, I'm not sure what's going on. His void starts to close in on me again; his living shadows nearly engulf me completely. The tiny bits I can hear and smell don't give me enough of a picture to recognize what's happening. Then the darkness slides off me like a loose cloak, and the world comes flooding back. Fisk is practically marinating in his own sweat, as he picks up his phone and keys in a number. The goon lets go of me.

"No tricks," Shroud warns.

"It will take time to bring her here," Kingpin replies, his tone the slightest bit patronizing. "I located her in New York. Weeks ago, she fell into a coma, from which she has only recently awakened. Knowing of your interest in her, I ensured that she would receive the best care while she recovered."

"And you didn't think to inform me, even though you _knew_ that the only reason I was assisting you was in order to locate her." Shroud's voice is thick with menace. "I want to speak with her."

Kingpin is seething, but he gives the order to whoever's on the other end and tells us that they'll call back in a few minutes.

Sure enough, ten minutes later, the phone rings. As Shroud grabs it, I hear something else, though. Trust me: with my ears, silent alarms aren't actually silent. It's not entirely unexpected; strong-arming Kingpin in front of his own people is seldom a wise move. I didn't expect him to let Shroud get away with it. It occurs to me that I might have to save the goons already in the room, if Kingpin gets it into his head to eliminate anyone who saw him in a weakened state. More likely, though, he's just not taking a chance on Shroud hearing him give an order. Reinforcements might be able to take down Shroud before he has a chance to use his darkness powers.

At this moment, I'd be lying if I said that there's not a part of me that that wants Shroud to suffer. When I think of the people whose lives he wrecked today, collateral damage in a war they had no idea they were even a part of, I'd like a piece of him myself. But liking and taking aren't the same thing. And I'm not about to stand by and let Kingpin's goons shoot him in cold blood either.

I hear footsteps coming down the hall at a brisk trot. They're armed; I can smell the gun oil through the crack under the door. As I get ready to intervene, I can't help wishing that they hadn't confiscated my billy-club.

* * *

"I have to hand it to you," Kirsten says, admiringly. "I don't think my father will be able to tell that we were even here, much less had to deal with those creeps." Madrox's duplicates have been hard at work, cleaning, touching up paint, and otherwise returning the yacht to its pre-attack state. All but one, who sits groaning on a deck chair, atop several black plastic garbage bags, a bloody bandage around his head. The bullet grazed him and the wound looks—and feels—more serious than it is. The original Madrox, who's told Kirsten and Foggy that he prefers the term 'Madrox Prime' smiles.

"One advantage to being able to split myself apart: any skills or experiences my dupes pick up transfer back to me when I reabsorb them. It made law school easy; each duplicate was responsible for taking one course. Much less pressure that way."

"I can see that," Foggy says, not quite able to keep a note of wistful envy out of his voice.

"Isn't that cheating?" Kirsten wants to know.

"No," one of the duplicates interjects. "It's not. We're all one person; we just split into as many bodies as necessary. Generally speaking, I'm no realer or truer than that other me; the one who's actually working as an entertainment lawyer in LA."

"Theoretically," another duplicate adds, "if anything were to happen to 'Prime' here, one of us would automatically become the new Prime."

"Though we might all fade out of existence," another one chimes in.

Madrox Prime shrugs. "I guess we'll know for sure, if that ever happens. Meanwhile, since you don't need an army, and since re-absorption is also going to heal our gunshot wound about thirty times faster than normal..." He doesn't finish his sentence. Instead, he gently leans into one of the duplicates. Before Foggy and Kirsten's eyes, the two become one. He repeats the procedure, careening from one double to the next, until only he and the injured duplicate are left. He smiles and touches the dupe lightly on the shoulder. "Ready?"

The injured man nods. A moment later, Prime is the only one standing. "Not bad," he says, rubbing the side of his head in the spot where his duplicate had been injured. "A little sore, but nothing too serious." His smile fades. "Unlike that other stuff you were telling me earlier. I can understand why Murdock would consider approaching Kingpin. Heck, I can understand a bit better why he'd reach out to _me_."

Foggy blinks. "Explain what you mean by that."

Madrox shuffles his feet uncomfortably. "Mutants and Avengers usually don't get invited to the same parties. And when we do, it sort of tends to get messy. Mind you," he adds, "my dupe in LA, the entertainment lawyer," he chuckles briefly, "a generation ago, it was 'my son, the doctor'; now it's 'my dupe, the entertainment lawyer'. Times change. Anyway, my dupe's worked recently with She-Hulk. That went pretty well. Well enough that she evidently said something to Murdock that led him to make that phone call. Still, we all know that there are others he could have called in."

"We discussed that before Matt left," Kirsten says. "Of the people he'd normally turn to, if he were going to turn to anyone... Black Widow is currently off the grid; he doesn't know how to reach Elektra; he refuses to call in Iron Man; and just about everyone else he knows is in NYC. He wasn't sure if you'd get here on time, what with the distance between Frisco and LA."

"LA?" Madrox laughs. "Try Kansas. That's where I live. It's why I hitched a ride with Magik to get here." He shrugs. "My dupe in LA spends most of his time behind a desk. The most exercise he gets is slapping himself on the back every time he wins a case. Which give him his own dupes to take care of paperwork, janitorial duties, coffee detail... When Daredevil called him, my dupe put him on hold for a minute and called me."

"And you came from the Midwest to the West Coast to help out someone you've never met, much less worked with?" Foggy lets out a low whistle.

Madrox shakes his head. "It's not as noble as you're making it sound. My wife grew up in Hell's Kitchen. She speaks well of him. You too, actually. I know your firm was one of the few willing to take on hate crime cases when the victims lived in Mutant Town. You handled one involving a friend of hers pro bono." He smiled at Foggy's surprised look. "What goes around, eh? Actually, she—my wife, I mean... well, she knows stuff. That's one of her abilities. And she told me that my coming down here now was important for the future. I know that's pretty vague, but I've learned to trust when she says stuff like that. So," he shrugged, "it could mean that at some point, I'll need representation. Or maybe next week, when X-Men and Avengers go back to not talking to each other, something accomplished here will be instrumental in all of us getting our heads out of our keisters and remembering we're supposed to be on the same side. Maybe, ten years from now, at least one of you three will be involved in some other case that pertains to mutant issues and something I do here and now will give you some insight that would help your arguments." His smile fades. "I can tell you right now that I don't know how it would go down if, say, one of my dupes were to commit a serious crime and then get re-absorbed. Technically, absorbing him obliterates him, but his memories would still live on in me and bits and pieces would be in any future dupes I bang out. So... could I be held accountable for his actions?"

Foggy frowns. "I'm not sure if there's any precedent for it, but if I was admitted to the bar in the state where the trial was to be held, I'd be willing to take it on."

"Pretty sure I'm speaking for Matt here when I say we all would be," Kirsten chimes in.

Madrox smiles. "Speaking of Daredevil... Matt, I mean, you realize Kingpin probably wasn't happy with the way that phone call went. Think he's okay?"

* * *

There are times when I envy Captain America. Truly. He always seems to have a clear picture in his head of what's right or wrong. I've never known him to compromise his ideals. (To be fair, I don't know whether he has, but it wouldn't surprise me in the least if he hasn't.) I've never heard of a time where he's lost the moral high ground. And if there were two people who—on different occasions—had wrecked his life, and they were in a room together ready to kill each other, I would bet good money that he wouldn't be tempted for a second to walk away and let them have at it.

I am not Captain America. I am tempted. Very tempted. It's not like either one of them is innocent in this. It's not as though I have my billy-club. It's not...

It's not like I can't hear what Julia is saying to Shroud over the phone. She's gone from incredulous and giddy to angry and hurt in the course of thirty seconds. I realize that I don't _want_ to hear what she's telling him, but even normal senses can be hard to close off. Mine go a bit beyond that. She knows what he's been doing. I don't know how, but she knows. And she's horrified.

As the office doors open and Kingpin's thugs pour in, I hear Julia loud and clear: "The Max Coleridge I know would never have crossed the lines you've crossed. The Max Coleridge who did isn't any man I _want_ to know."

As I leap out of the chair, I spot the goons behind me drawing their guns. Disarming them is child's play. I keep one of the pieces and use it—along with my other hand—to bludgeon the reinforcements. I'm betting _they_ wish their boss had let me keep my cane. It still would have hurt, but not as badly.

Through it all, Kingpin stays behind his desk, letting his people bleed for him, and Max stays on the phone, his voice desperate, as he pleads with Julia to listen to him.

"Don't call me again, Max. And, for your sake, get some help."

I grunt, as a fist plows into my gut and the air gets knocked out of me. That's what I get for letting myself get distracted by a soap opera. I fall back, but I'm ready when the goon presses toward me. I dodge his next blow, grab his arm as I rise, and slam him into the wall. I smell plaster dust and hear something crash—probably a framed picture. Diploma, maybe? Wood and glass, whatever it is.

The goons are down. No sign of my cane, but I doubt they've dropped it off in the cloakroom. Sure enough, when I stick my head outside the door, I spot it in a corner and pick it up. I take a deep breath. Now, for Kingpin.

As soon as I re-enter the office, I realize that Max isn't holding the phone anymore. Instead, he's standing behind Kingpin, off to one side, right where the window he crashed through used to be. Kingpin still hasn't moved from his chair and his heartbeat nearly back to normal, now.

It's not hard to realize why.

When I first met Max Coleridge, he was reeling from a number of reverses, including Julia's disappearance. By the time our paths crossed, he was passively suicidal—seeking out battles he knew he probably couldn't win and hoping someone would put him out of his misery. After talking to Julia, it looks like he's decided to take matters into his own hands.

I yell his name, as he takes a step out of the office and into the empty air beyond. He doesn't turn. He doesn't even hesitate. As I leap after him, I'm positive that Kingpin is smiling.

* * *

Talk about déjà vu. Just like our first encounter, it ends with the two of us perched on the edge of a roof, Max tied up in my billy-club line. I should just turn him into the authorities. If Charlie wants to chuck me in a holding cell, too, so be it. The Shroud is too dangerous—both to himself and to others—to leave at large. His heart is pounding. He's shaking, and I can tell it's more from rage than despair or fear.

I've been there.

I should be there now. I've got every right to be. Not only was he instrumental in tearing apart the life I'd built for myself here... he's humiliated and endangered friends and clients. People I care about. People I swore to protect. Solely because they know me. Their lives are about to go to hell and the best I can hope to do is mitigate the damage somewhat. I can't prevent it entirely.

I should be furious. Instead, I'm just numb. Months of work... down the drain in the course of an afternoon. I think it's finally really sinking in. It's over. Pounding Max to hamburger won't fix it. Kingpin couldn't have fixed it either; not really. Short term, he might have done something, but the cost would have been too heavy; I recognize that now. I can't change what's happened today. I can only choose where I go from here.

A sigh escapes me. "Are you all right?" I ask Max.

He growls. "I suppose now you're going to tell me again how superior you are, because _you_ would never have done what I did for a lost love."

 _I never said—_...But thinking back to our first encounter again, maybe I can see why he took what I told him then as acting holier-than-thou. I sigh again. "I took over a ninja cult and constructed a prison-slash-temple in the middle of Manhattan after one of my enemies drove my wife permanently insane. I set myself up opposite heroes I'd once stood alongside. I almost murdered my best friend in cold blood. I'm not that superior."

For several long moments, Max says nothing. When he speaks again, his voice is scarcely louder than a whisper and it's missing most of its gravel. "Your wife?"

I shake my head, wondering whether he can register the gesture. "Not anymore. Her parents had our marriage annulled. They also took out a restraining order against me. They blame me for her condition. I'm not so sure they're wrong. The man responsible for her condition admitted... gloated, rather... that he'd done it specifically to hurt me. Mission accomplished." My shoulders slump. "She's in an institution in upstate New York. I still write to her every week. I don't know if she receives the letters. She's never replied."

I press my lips together tightly as though that can somehow repress the emotions whirling around me. "You're not the only one who's ever embraced darkness," I add. Something makes me keep talking, even though I think I've said enough. "I didn't lie to you before. I never got to the point where I tried to get some 'super villain'—or regular villain—to put me out of my misery. But I came damned close. Close enough that when I did eventually come to my senses, it terrified me to realize how little it would have taken to push me to that point. That other time, I didn't yell at you because I thought I was 'better' than you for not falling into that abyss; I yelled at you because when I understood what you were doing, I felt my old terror surface, and my adrenaline kicked in. I was yelling at my own memories. You just... got in the way."

I don't think I've actually sat down and analyzed it like that before, but as the words come out, I realize that I mean them. Max seems to know it, too. At least, he isn't raging and spewing bile at the moment.

"And now, you're going to turn me in." He sounds more resigned than bitter.

I take a deep breath. "I'm turning us both in," I say. I think I made up my mind about that around the same time I accepted that there were no easy fixes to this situation. I need to face facts. I need to face consequences. I need to live with myself and I don't think I'll be able to do that if—after going on and on about the people who've been hurt in all of this—I wash my hands of the whole affair, pull up stakes, and try my luck somewhere else. I remember how I reacted when my identity was first outed in the tabloid press. Months... years spent denying the truth, running from it, and in the end, it caught up with me anyway. I could run again, but I'll never get fast enough or far enough, so why try? "Ready?"

"I don't care anymore," Max's voice is bleak. "I've lost Julia. There's no point in fighting."

I hoist him onto one shoulder, preparing to descend. "One day," I say, "I hope you'll find out that you're wrong about that." There are people in New York who'll be able to locate Julia and get her out of Kingpin's clutches. I make a mental note to call one of them as soon as I can.

* * *

I'm not that surprised to find the police waiting at street level. With Max tied up in my billy-club line, swinging from the roof was out of the question, and climbing down with him on my back meant taking it slow. There was plenty of time for someone to spot us and call them. One of the officers asks whether I can accompany them to the station to answer some questions. He assures me I'm not under arrest and can leave any time. It's my first indication that things might be calming down somewhat from where they stood earlier today. I accept the 'invitation' and allow them to escort me to a squad car. I'm alone in the back seat, so I can only assume that they're transporting Max in another one.

That's when I remember what I told Kirsten earlier. It seemed like a good idea at the time: count on Shroud being so eager to tear me down further that he'd be only too happy to have Kirsten give Charlie another reason to track me down. Then bluff about Julia's whereabouts and, while Shroud was on his way to attack Kingpin, have Foggy alert Madrox. It probably was a good idea. Except that I really don't want to be forced to undergo a psychiatric assessment.

Maybe I was too clever for my own good...

* * *

At the station, they bring me directly into an interrogation room. I assume so, at any rate. Two chairs facing each other across a wooden table. One door the sole way in or out. If the SFPD stations are at all like the NYPD, then there's got to one-way mirror on one of the walls, but I can't hear anybody talking on the other side.

After ten minutes, someone pokes their head in and asks me if I'd like anything to eat. I decline the offer, but accept a cup of coffee. It's instant, from a machine that hasn't been cleaned or otherwise serviced in a long time. I force it down anyway.

About a half hour after I finish the coffee, the door opens again and three people enter. I'm assuming that two of them are officers. The third is Charlie.

The other chair squeaks annoyingly, as Charlie pulls it away from the table and sits down. "I'm thinking I owe you an apology," she says softly.

I tilt my head in her direction.

"The timing was a bit too perfect: you bringing that woman around to my window at the precise moment that the video of her supplying those sky-sleds showed up on my tablet. And..." her voice drops even lower, "I really should have known better than to think you'd need to stage my daughter's kidnapping in order to establish yourself here."

That's right. She should have. Still, I try to imagine what must have been going through her head earlier. Under pressure, faced with nasty surprises in rapid succession, anyone can fall prey to hasty judgment and jump to the wrong conclusions.

"She's the Owl's daughter," I say finally. "We'd teamed up to try to find her father. I had no idea about her other activities. Or her costume."

She nods. "I had the manhunt for you called off a short while ago. You're here mostly because I didn't think you'd be turning up at my window any time soon and I wanted to let you know that you could relax. A little." She sighs. "And partly because Kirsten phoned to say that she was worried about some of your actions. And once certain orders are given, rescinding them isn't instantaneous." She pauses. "And I figured whoever was spying on you might also be spying on us. I wasn't sure it was a wise move to let them know I didn't suspect you any longer. All things considered, getting you down here just seemed best."

I nod. "Fisk _is_ here in San Francisco," I say, "though my reasons for seeking him out were a bit different from what I had Kirsten tell you." I give her the address of his office, adding that I suspect he's moved on since my visit. One of officers says they'll check it out.

"I can't do anything about your clients' personal information being out there," Charlie admits. "Nor any of the potential repercussions. But as far as our business here," she looks from one officer to the next, "you're free to go. And I do want to thank you for bringing in the Shroud."

I nod again. "He should be able to tell you where to find the Owl."

One of the officers speaks now. "He did. We sent a car to the location specified. Unfortunately, the premises had been vacated. We have forensics going over them now. Afterwards, if you're up to taking a crack at it...?"

"Of course." I'm wondering, though. Did Owlsley manage to escape on his own? Did Jubula get to him? Or... did Kingpin? "Well," I force myself to smile, "I guess I'm going to have what to do to occupy myself during those hours when I would normally be seeing clients."

Charlie slumps. "I wish I could tell you it wasn't going to be that bad."

I push my chair back from the table and stand. "I've weathered reverses before. I'll weather this one, too." Somehow.

The officers escort Charlie and me to the street. I wish that when the station door closes behind us, it doesn't have such a heavy ring of finality.

 **Epilogue**

My place has better security than Wendell McDuffie's yacht. I have Kirsten, Foggy, and Madrox meet me there and we discuss strategy.

"My dupe's specialty is entertainment law," Madrox admits. "That's probably not going to help you. And as for his personality... um," he tugs at his collar, "Let's just say, Jen didn't exaggerate. _But_ if you need to look stuff up quickly, he can bang out as many researchers as you need. Have you heard anything about a civil suit from any your clients, yet?"

I shake my head. "Notwithstanding that this has been a _very_ long day; this whole thing did just break a few hours ago. I'm expecting that it will happen though." I incline my head toward Kirsten. "When it does, they'll be going after the firm—both of us—rather than just me."

I turn to Madrox. "Would your dupe have any problems with Jen using his practice as the firm of record, as she did when she defended Captain America?"

"I doubt it. I'll talk to him; you talk to Jen and we'll hammer out the details over the next day or so."

"And hey," Foggy breaks in, "just because I'm not currently licensed doesn't mean I can't join the research team. We've handled cases like this in the past."

"We are still looking to settle out of court, right?" Kirsten asks.

I nod. "Absolutely." Nobody wants this to drag out through the system. We just need to come to an agreement as to a fair payout. Which reminds me...

I reach over to Foggy and rest my hand on his shoulder. He tenses and turns his head to look at it. I take a breath. "I need to come clean about something else. The reason I took the book deal in the first place was because... when you were disbarred, you lost your medical insurance. And an eight million dollar advance covers a lot of cancer treatment."

Under my hand, I feel his muscles tense for a moment. Then, his shoulders slump as he exhales. "I suspected," he admits. "I mean, the doctor kept sidestepping my questions about cost and I know you're in decent financial shape, but I didn't think it was _that_ decent."

"No," I shake my head. "Most of it is in a money market account, but about a hundred thousand has been used and more will need to be. Unfortunately, that does impact the amount of money available for settlement or damages. We're going to need to figure out how much to set aside from the advance to keep paying for your treatment. Whatever's left after that—and there should be a significant amount—I'm happy to part with. If it's not enough..." I sigh, "I'll put this place up for sale. I can probably find something in the Tenderloin or Ingleside Heights for a less than a third of what I clear for it."

"The Tenderloin?" Kirsten's aghast. "Matt, do you have any clue what the crime rate is in that part of the city?"

I release Foggy's shoulder and shrug. "You know I've lived a good part of my life in pre-gentrification Hell's Kitchen, right?"

"Point conceded."

"Hey," Madrox breaks in, "we're just exploring options right now. Nobody's calling a realtor tonight, right?"

I nod. "It's possible that what's left of the advance, plus future book sales will be enough to cover everything. If it's not..."

"If it's not," Kirsten says, "Daddy's not going to see us out on the street. I hate asking him for anything, but if it should come to that, he _will_ help."

Good to know, even if I'd prefer not to ask either. "As far as our practice..." I venture. "Kirsten, I never meant to—"

"Matt," her voice is firm, as she lays her hand across mine. "I'm going to stop you right there. Listen. We got off to a few false starts, mostly because I started to realize what associating with you—in a non-professional sense, I mean—would entail. And I walked away. And..." I hear the smile in her voice, "I had some very good reasons to do so. But as soon as I did, I started having regrets. So, I sat down and I reassessed. I helped you out with the Sons of the Serpent. I pulled up stakes and came out to San Francisco with you. I'm sitting here next to you now. And the reason I've done all this isn't because I love you (though I do). It's because I've weighed the risks and, believe it or not, I think you're worth it. And if I need to start a new line of work, they say that the average person today changes careers five to seven times, so bring it." Her hand tightens on mine. "In other words, if you're blaming yourself because one of your enemies trashed my professional reputation, cut it out _right_ now. My choice, my lumps."

Have I mentioned how much I love this woman?

She takes a breath and lets it out. "Of course, if you could give me five minutes alone with the Owl or the Shroud..."

A grin spreads across my face. There are some big storms looming on my horizon and more than a few of them are going to be hard to weather, but it would be exponentially worse if I had to face them alone. I don't. Not anymore. I'm going to get through this. It's going to work out. As for _how_ it will... I have no idea, but that's okay too. I never was much of a planner.


End file.
